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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516564">Shattered Embers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae_starlight/pseuds/rae_starlight'>rae_starlight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mutants of Delbrooke Trilogy [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adoption, Angst, Birb kid, But seriously they're not, Child Abuse, Confinement, Eating Disorders, Fire Powers, Foster Care, Found Family, Gen, I swear the mutants aren't furries hahaHa, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Isolation, Mutant Powers, Twin Brothers, Wingfic, twinfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:28:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae_starlight/pseuds/rae_starlight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A young mutant escapes from his cruel father, but he's forced to leave his twin brother behind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mutants of Delbrooke Trilogy [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Cove</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Watery morning sunlight filters through the barred window, bouncing off the rusted faucet in one corner of the basement. It lights up the dusty walls and cracked floor, but it doesn't let in much warmth. I close my eyes and try to ignore the brightness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Boy! Get up here </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you stupid thing!" The booming voice makes me flinch. Father must know I didn't finish cleaning yesterday...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I listen to my family's muffled voices above my head. “The house is a mess!" Father continues. "That lazy little freak should know better by now. Haven't you punished it, Jillian?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you...might be a little too harsh with him." Mother's voice is soft, like always, but it's steady too. As though she's wanted to say this for a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father slams his fist on the table. I duck under my wings, peeking out every now and then to make sure he's not coming down the steps. “Well, how else will it learn? Creatures like that aren't like you and me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not an it," I whisper to myself. "I'm a person. Have to be."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father continues on, "The only thing that gets through to them is strict discipline. Sam, why don't you check on it? Make sure it hasn't died in the night."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My brother is silent for a while. "...Yes Sir."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds later, the door to the basement clicks open. Sam hesitates before entering, a look of disgust mixed with pity on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep breath, he hurries down the stairs, keeping away from the walls. “I hate this place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try living in it,” I tell him with a touch of bitterness. “If you can call this living, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs and looks away, kicking at one of the black feathers that litter the floor. “If it makes you feel any better, today's our birthday. Not that </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember it or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance at Sam. We're twins, but we couldn't be less alike. His dark hair is neat and trimmed, while mine is long and tangled. Both his eyes are green, but one of mine is orange and the other's blue. And he's a human, with no wings or sharp teeth to set him apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to pull myself out of my thoughts. “We're, what, twelve now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He pauses. “I should really get you a calendar or something, shouldn't I?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That's okay,” I reply. What if Father found out? My heart skips a beat when I think about it. “You really shouldn't take all these risks, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We don't say much more. Time seems to crawl, and Sam gets bored after a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'd better go," he mutters, already standing up and turning towards the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stare after him as he leaves, lost in my thoughts and wishing I knew what to say...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slacking off again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing I see when I wake up is the smug expression on Father's reddened face. “You can sleep when I say so. Until then, you have work to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hands are shaking; I shove them in the pockets of my ragged grey cargo shorts so the Governor doesn't see.“I’m sorry, s-sir. I swear I didn't mean--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs the front of my shirt and hauls me off the ground. I'm so light that he can easily lift me with one hand. “Don't give me that attitude, brat!” he yells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remain silent, but this only seems to enrage him more. He slaps me across the face with his free hand. “Why didn't you clean the kitchen yesterday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bring one bony hand up to my face. My cheek burns, and I know from experience that I'll have a bruise later. "Beg pardon, sir…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What was that? You know better than to mumble, don't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to do my chores," I say more clearly. "Honest I did. It's just--I couldn't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, of course.” Father’s voice is dismissive and mocking. “Poor you. Well then, you’ll have to go without food for a few days. You know the rules by now, don't you?”</span>
</p><p><span>I want to argue. I can barely stand without feeling dizzy, and my stomach feels as though it's caving in. I've been this way for weeks</span> <span>now--ever since Father made me start fasting whenever I was bad.  Something tells me I can't last much longer in this state. </span></p><p>
  <span>But I don't dare say anything except, “Yes sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets go of my shirt and heads back upstairs. I crumple to the ground, and a dull pain spreads through my right leg. I'm used to that--it's been crooked and stiff for years. I don't remember why. All I know is, there isn't any way to fix it. And even if there was, Father would never </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> approve. Not in a million years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if I'm really a soulless demon, then why do I feel so sad? I shouldn't care at all. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I struggle to my feet and limp towards the stairs. I've long since learned not to think about things too much. Father says I'm less than human. So it must be true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half an hour later, I'm on my hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What if I stole some food? Just enough to keep from starving?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don't even think about it,” I tell myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time I finish cleaning the entire house, it's late afternoon. I just have one more thing to do. And I'm dreading it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a mirror in every room, plus a few handheld ones in the Governor's office. I'm supposed to polish them all every week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course I'd never think of refusing. But I hate having to see myself. I know I'm ugly. It's not like I need to be reminded of that!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'll know if I don't do what I'm told, though. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> finds out in time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to prepare myself, but the sight of my reflection still makes me cringe. I'd forgotten just how hideous I look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bones, sharp and prominent, cast shadows across my skin. I'm the color of the whitewashed concrete in my basement--I've spent hours just staring down and comparing them, wondering if I could blend in and hide like some kind of chameleon. Maybe I could, if it wasn't for the curtain of matted black hair and the mismatched eyes underneath that stare out of sunken circles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And of course, my wings are the worst of all--they twitch when I'm even a little upset, and the feathers are a washed-out dark grey color. Besides: if I didn't have these stupid things, Father wouldn't hate me! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't let myself cry until I'm back in the basement, lying on the wooden pallet that passes for my bed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t show emotion, idiot!</span>
  </em>
  <span> I tell myself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you want Father to see?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the tears start falling, I can't seem to stop them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn't always this way. My memories of before have all faded by now, but I still remember a few things: sharing a room with Sam. Running without pain. Feeling sunlight on my skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding onto these things keeps me sane. Maybe someday I'll be happy again. Even loved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe I'm just being naive. After all, it’s been seven whole years since then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hot, prickling feeling creeps over my skin. I'd better not be running a fever--I'll be punished if I get sick!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wait for this to pass, but it only grows worse. After another hour, I manage to fall asleep. My dreams are full of burning houses and smoke-filled streets...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I wake up, I'm shaking and drenched in sweat. But the hot feeling has almost faded. I don't feel so warm anymore, at least. In fact, I'm kind of cold. But that's normal--the basement has always been drafty, even in summer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father visits about an hour later. How could I forget? It's inspection day, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stand up and face me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boiling anger rises in my chest, and for a second I think about staying right where I am. But the rage is gone in a matter of seconds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What was I thinking?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least you know how to do what you're told </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says once I've followed his instructions. This is the nicest thing he's said about me that I can remember. “Now take off your shirt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do as he says and stare at the floor in mute terror, hating how exposed I am. My shirt has holes in it, but at least it's something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father circles me, tugging at one of my wings with a silk-covered hand. Of course he'd never think of touching them without gloves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plucks a coal-black feather from the place where my wings meet my back. I close my eyes tight, barely resisting the urge to hiss in pain. But by the time he's done, my face is expressionless again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These look terrible," he says, holding the feather up to the light. "Have you been working enough or just sitting around getting uglier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's called molting,” I reply. My voice is dull, as it always is when I'm hiding my feelings. “It happens around this time every year.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Which you'd know by now if you actually cared,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I add to myself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pathetic.” He pauses before stepping back. “Also, you're getting fat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know this is a lie. I haven't eaten more than scraps in a long time, my arms and legs are twiglike, and my ribs stick out way too much. I'm anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> ‘fat’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still cuts deep, though. And there's a part of me that believes it. When has the Governor ever been wrong? “Sorry, Father. I'll...try to eat less."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the house is almost dark, Sam comes to visit me again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Father's  out for some kind of meeting,” he explains, seeing my anxious glance towards the stairs. “Hey, are you feeling alright? You look kind of sick…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I'm fine,” I lie. “Sam? Can I ask you something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at me. “I have a bad feeling about this. But I guess you might as well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I close my eyes. This is too important to say out loud. Even if Father isn't around, I can't trust Mother not to eavesdrop; she's as beaten down as I am.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam lowers his voice. “We're not doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> again, it's so weird…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I try it anyway. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If I escaped someday, would you come with me?</span>
  </em>
  <span> I ask without speaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't know exactly when we first discovered our telepathic link. I mean, it's pretty much been a part of us since we were babies.  But Sam’s been making excuses to shut me out for a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets the message this time, though. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You know I would,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he tells me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re twins, after all--we have to stick together.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Promise me you're telling the truth. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at me for a long time</span>
  <em>
    <span>. Of course I am.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few days pass. Nothing out of the ordinary happens; I do exactly what Father says. Rise when he enters the room. Look down when he gets too close. Keep the house and yard spotless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But...something's off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mother slips me extra food--not much, but enough to keep me from collapsing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam stares at me often, then quickly turns away. Once I swear I see tears in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As for Father, he's out campaigning most of the time now. When he does come home, he hits me as hard as ever. I try to remind myself that it's what I deserve, but it still hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, late one night, everything changes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I've been having trouble sleeping. When I was dusting the living room I heard on TV that there’s a storm coming. And bad weather always makes my leg hurt. So, thanks to luck or fate or something else entirely, I'm awake to hear them talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit up, alert. Father's voice is softer than usual, but I've trained myself to listen to everything. That way I can be prepared when he's upset.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mother speaks next.  “Dearest, do we really have to do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of a sharp slap follows her words. I wince, feeling my heart break for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'll be busier than ever soon,” the governor says. “Do you really think I'll have time to cater to the little freak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...No, Dearest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let's go."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They enter the basement a minute or two later. Father glares at me; Mother hangs back, pale in the moonlight. Sam's between them, holding what looks like a pair of glowing handcuffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “What do you want?” I ask the Governor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't answer. Then Sam steps forward, averting his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We're sending you to the labs," he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don't have to do this,” I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get on with it!” Father tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam slowly reaches for my hands. I look into his eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So this is it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His reply is almost loud enough for our parents to hear it.</span>
  <em>
    <span> You think I have a choice?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In a blind panic, I push him hard. He stumbles backwards; the cuffs clatter to the floor. I’m forced to grab onto the nearest wall, already regretting how much strength the simple action took.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's when I notice the smoke. Smoke that's...rising from my hands?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This can't be happening.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He's…” Mother trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...a fire mage,” the governor finishes. Every word drips with hate. “I should've known.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “What are you talking about?” I demand. “I'm not a...whatever you called it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As I speak, sparks fly from my fingertips. Mother pulls Sam back. “Be careful!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at me, looking angry. Betrayed, even.  “I thought we told each other everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn't know,” I whisper. “I never thought--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But looking back, I should've seen it coming. There were signs, like the hot feeling that gets worse when I'm upset. And the way my eye changed color...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The darkness surrounding us lights up as flames burst from my hands; my family leaps out of the way just in time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This isn't real,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I tell myself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's a nightmare, that's all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Father turns on me as soon as the flames die. “Get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? But sir--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard me! I can’t have an elemental in the house. All mutants are evil, but Mages are the worst breed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He’d never survive out there,” Mother protests. “You’ve starved him, and it’s made him weak. Besides, he doesn’t know anything about the world…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She falls silent, cowering under the look Father gives her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I keep staring at Sam, begging him to speak up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I'm sorry, Cove.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He looks away, breaking the connection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Governor hauls me to my feet and up the stairs, heading towards the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I struggle to get free, but it’s no use. Mother was right--I’m weaker than I even realized.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In an instant I’m outside, staring up at the stars. </span>
  <em>
    <span>When was the last time I saw those?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait a minute--please!” I sit up, panicked. I can’t leave the basement--it’s the only home I know!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door locks before I can get to it. “Father! Sam!" I hesitate. "Mother!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Governor doesn’t come back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one else does, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A car rushes past--I’m almost caught in its headlights, but I manage to dive behind a shrub at the last second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bush is covered in pink-and-white flowers, but I can’t remember what they’re called. It’s been years since I was allowed to work in the garden; once Father realized that it brought me a little happiness, he took it away from me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no time to think about that now, though. I have to get away! I’ve been told what will happen if a human sees me--I’ll be murdered without a second thought, or taken to a lab!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half-blinded by tears, I spread my wings and take off into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fly for what seems like hours. But it might only be ten minutes; I lose track of time before long. The wind picks up, making it a challenge to stay in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have to keep pressing on. I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When will I stop? And...where will I go from there? I flap my wings harder, trying to climb high enough to escape the dread building inside me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the sun starts to rise, dark clouds cover the sky. Rain starts to fall, steaming as it hits my skin. Thunder rumbles in the distance. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not now!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to get low enough to land, but the wind is even worse by now; it grabs my too-light body, and I’m powerless to stop it. I’m screaming as I plummet towards an empty field, but I can’t hear myself over the gale--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On instinct, I throw my arms out in front of me. What good will that do? Probably none, but it’s all I can think of. A sharp pain snaps through my left wrist as I hit the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the world goes black.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Officer Greene</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"You'll be patrolling Platt's Field today," the sheriff says. His lined face is as grave as ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to protest, but standing on the other side of his mahogany desk reminds me that I'm his employee--not the other way around. So I nod and smile. "Yes, sir."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he leaves, another officer turns to me with a smirk. George Roberts: new to the team, as unpleasant as they come, and with a schoolboy crush on most of the women in our unit. This can only end so well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Platt's Field, hm? That's pretty far out of town. I'd be careful if it were me." Roberts leans just a little too close to me for comfort, raising his sparse eyebrows in an exaggerated pantomime of concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can hold my own," I say, straightening my shoulders. But he doesn't let up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Against a person, sure. But what if one of those freaks decides to attack you? They've been antsy lately--I had to issue warnings to three of 'em last week." He places a hand on my arm. I can smell his body odor and cheap cologne from here. "Maybe I should go with you, babe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mutants are equal under the law. Anyway, aren't you married?" I pull away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George slinks back to his desk, looking for all the world like a scolded puppy. "Aw, she'd never know…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I put George out of my mind as I park the police cruiser on the edge of the dirt road. Platt's Field, named after a long-dead farmer, isn't anything special. But we have to keep an eye on it because teenagers--both mutant and human--have been known to go there when they want to drink, smoke, or worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first I'm content to sit in the car and glance out the window whenever I feel like it. The sky is the dull grey color of tarnished steel,  and it looks like it might rain soon. Better to stay under a roof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I start to feel guilty. Shouldn't I make more of an effort?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I climb out and slam the car door behind me. The noise echoes through the silent field. Something rustles a few yards away; I freeze, but nothing comes running at me. Probably just a stray cat. I continue on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stalks of wheat sway in the wind. It's not time for harvest yet, so they're still tall enough to obscure the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe that's why I don't notice the boy until I almost trip over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to stand, fails, then manages it on the second attempt. He looks..</span>
  <em>
    <span>terrible</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His clothes are torn and filthy. His skin is a patchwork of dirt and bruises that nearly obscure his pale skin. He's holding his left arm at an odd angle against his body. And his matted hair sticks up every which way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you doing out here?" I ask him. He glares at me,  eyes turning red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you need help?" I continue, swallowing. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and my heart pounds. I don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> mutants, but there's no denying that they can be dangerous…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against my better judgment, I take a step towards him; he snarls, a feral gesture that reveals pointed canine teeth. "Stay away from me!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pause. Despite the anger radiating from him, there's something else in his tone. Something pleading. Something scared and desperate and broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a flash I know what I have to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I raise my tranquilizer gun. Every member of the Delbrooke Police Force is trained to use these--it's the only safe way to take out a mutant, especially one as defensive as the boy in front of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I aim. His eyes widen; he raises one hand, although the other stays tucked close to his chest. "Don't shoot me! I'll b-burn you, I swear!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sigh, but I don't waver. He's a threat. A terrified, trembling threat in a child's body...but a threat nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking into those tear-filled eyes, I fire.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cove</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"I think he's coming around now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A harsh light shines down on me. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it still burns into my brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you awake? We need to look at your eyes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn my head away from the voice. "Hurts," I mumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, but it's really important. Please?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I finally do what the person says, she steps back a little. "I've never seen such--well, that's not important. Your eyes are a little glazed, but at least your pupils look okay. So how are you feeling?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don't answer. Now that the light is gone, I can see where I am...but I can't quite make sense of it. The walls are light green, not grey. And there's a lot of machines around me. What's going on, anyway? Where's Father?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman in the white uniform is staring at me, still waiting for my answer. "I'm fine," I say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her eyebrows. "We'll see what Dr. McKinley says about that. In the meantime, how about you get cleaned up a little?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I don't say anything, she sighs and reaches for my right hand. "Let me just take your IV out so you can shower, okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I jerk my arm away from her. There's a clear, narrow tube going into the back of my hand--why didn't I notice it before?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My heart seems to stop as the truth hits me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is some kind of lab, isn't it?" I demand. "And you're gonna take my powers!"  Without waiting for the scientist to answer, I stand. My legs feel like lead, and I sway on the spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, don't do that!" she says. "Do you want to fall?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A grey-haired man in a long white coat rushes into the room. "Calm down," he says in a soft, soothing voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fear inside me threatens to spill over, souring into hate as I glare at him. The scientists step back, looking nervous. My eye must be flashing orange again. "Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down when you'll </span>
  <em>
    <span>cut off my wings</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We would never do that," he says. "I'm a doctor, and this is a hospital. You're safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm breathing hard; my entire body shakes with rage and exhaustion. After a second, I plop back down onto the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There you go. Now can you tell me what gave you that idea?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Father </span>
  <em>
    <span>said," </span>
  </em>
  <span>I mutter, crossing my arms as much as I can with my left wrist wrapped in plaster. The scientists must've done that while I was asleep. Even more reason not to trust them!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of Father--he'll be so mad at me if he finds out I want to keep my powers. I shouldn't. They're scary. They're </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I'll be honest: I can't imagine living without them after all these years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half an hour later, I'm clean and dressed in better clothes. I glance at myself in the mirror as I dry my hair with a fluffy blue towel. I'd say I look better...except that without a layer of dirt covering my skin, the bruises show up twice as much as before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor also gave me a toothbrush. It took me a while to figure out how to use it, but I do feel nicer now. I open my mouth wide, looking at my reflection's white teeth. Even my two fangs don't seem so terrible. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes they do</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I remind myself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't act like it's normal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I walk back into the main room, squinting against the lights beaming down from the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is that bothering you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I whirl around, shielding my face with my arms. But the "doctor" doesn't make a move towards me. "N-no," I say after a second. "It's fine. Just brighter than I'm used to is all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows. "It's a regular fluorescent light. You've seen those before, haven't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I scowl and look at the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anyway," he continues, "do you want me to brush your hair out for you? It can't be comfortable like that." I can tell he really means it. Maybe he's a nice scientist--or at least nicer than the rest of them, not that that's saying much. Either way, it can't hurt as long as I'm careful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you want to," I force myself to say, trying and failing to sound tough. "But don't even get </span>
  <em>
    <span>near</span>
  </em>
  <span> my wings."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Trust me, I won't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a long time for him to get the knots out of my hair; it's thin and brittle, but years have gone by since anyone touched it at all. And it's almost long enough to reach my hips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Someone sure let this get out of hand," McKinley says with worry in his voice. "I wonder…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off. I want to ask him </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wonders, but I don't dare.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
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